The Broken Tea Set
by Cherries and Bearbees
Summary: "I hate you." John hotly replies. "I guessed you would resent me for this, yes."


In the evening, John Watson had decided he needed some tea. He was cold and felt the urge to do something. Before, when he was alone, he had the time to work on his blog, but, it had been over a year since he had last touched it. But now, he felt fidgety and aside from the unpleasant feeling in his body, the urge to do something was nerve wracking.

It was when he poured water in the kettle that someone climbed the stairs up. Mrs. Hudson rarely came up anymore, unless it was important. Since Sherlock's leave from the living, the old woman couldn't really bear it anymore to see the flat. She still allowed him to remain in it, despite he still only paid his share of the rent. She didn't wish for him to pay Sherlock's share, nor did she impose him another flatmate.

"I'll be making you a cup of tea, Mrs. Hudson." he calls out to her. "Feel free to take a seat in the living."

The steps move to the living room without stopping and John doesn't turn around. Everything inside of it is still the same. The furniture, the bullet holes in the wall. Only the mess was gone. Last Sunday, he had finally dared to put some order in the papers, strewn around books and the pillows on the ground. He hadn't liked the task and the weather, that was similar to that of today, hadn't helped it. The heavy, english rainfall had made him feel even more sick to the stomach than he already was for 'fixing' Sherlock's mess. The only good thing about that day was that he had remained dry. Because otherwise, it had been a horrible decision. Once it had been done, the flat had felt even more emptier than ever, as if he had never existed, despite everything in it was his (except for that one sweater John had received for christmas in exchange for an expensive fountain pen. He was still unsure to that day if it had been a wise investment, but then, who knew what to give a man like Sherlock for a present?).

His melancholic musings were interrupted by the whistling of the kettle. He poured the boiling water in the teapot, relishing the revigorating scent of earl grey tea. He puts the tea pot on a platter, along with two cups on their dishes, a bottle of cream and the sugar pot, on a platter and walks to the living room, where his guest is waiting for him.

"Apologies for the wait, Mrs. Hudson." he says, entering the dimly lit room.

"I was under the impression that after all this time you would be able to differentiate the footsteps of dear Mrs Hudson from mine, dear Watson."

Hearing a male voice speaking this, John looked up in shock. Tall, dark and lanky was the frame standing in front of his window, the lighting making it impossible to see the details. But his brain manages to hear the sound of a book closing with a snap.

It is only when the figure turns around that he fully realizes _who_ is standing there and that it is _real_. That it _is_ his flatmate, who is supposed to be _dead_, standing in front of him, unblemished of any signs from his former status.

"Clearly, I was wrong." the intruder continues, placing the book back where he found it (or rather, where he had decided where it should be, which meant on the coffee table, upside down and open, one of the pages now adorned with a dog ear) and gives him an impassive look. "You are still as unobservant as ever, John. Miss Hudson is never around at this hour on fridays as she is out to the grocery shop. Also, it is impossible for a man of my stature and weight to imitate the pace of an old, thin woman, no matter how hard I'd try."

The platter lands on the floor with a loud clatter, the tea set breaking in a hundred pieces, tea and cream spilling all over the floor. In one, two large paces, John has crossed the room and has his hands all over the taller man, as to assure himself that he was real and not going to vanish as it happened too often in his dreams.

"Sherlock, Sherlock." he mutters over and over again.

"Yes?" the infuriating man asks, not looking the least perturbed by John's affectuous outburst.

John stops, hands on Holmes' arms, as shaken out of a trance. He looks up to his friend, eyes wide and stares for a moment at the pale face. Sherlock keeps on looking back, his face devoid of any particular emotion, but just as intensely.

"You're supposed to be dead." the shorter one finally blurts out.

"As you can see, dear John, I am alive and well."

"I _saw_ you _fall_ from that building!" the other one insists. "You were _dead_!"

"A mistake, clearly."

A cracking noise follows that statement and Sherlock stumbles back. John cringes and rubs his painful fist, while glaring at him. The detective hasn't flinched, but does speak.

"I deserved that one, I would suppose." he admitted, sounding as if he was pouting.

"I hate you." John hotly replies.

Once again, Sherlock doesn't seem perturbed, but his words are hesitant.

"I guessed you would resent me for this, yes."

But John isn't quite done with expressing his red, hot anger that is boiling over.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?!" he yells. "For two _years_ I was mourning, telling myself I should have _done_ something!"

"You couldn't obviously."

"And did you even think about Mrs. Hudson?" John continues. "She was just as devastated, if not more, about your death! _I _was left behind with a broken woman and my own pain. Did you even _think_ about your friends' feelings when you decided to go into hiding? Obviously _not_! You, you, you infuriating man!"

And John rants on and on, for what seemed hours, until he became very quiet. He turns around and lets his shoulders sag down, hiding the tears rolling down his cheeks. Sherlock, for his part, doesn't move or talk, but he didn't expect him to either. This was his flatmate we're talking about, and Sherlock was not someone he anticipated to react to an angry rant in which he only meant half of the insults he had spouted at him.

Slowly, he steps away from him, trying to breathe calmly again and to stop the tears.

"I...should clean this mess up." he mumbles, about the tea set that was still shattered all over the floor.

"For what it is worth, I am sorry, John." Holmes finally says.

He sounds awkward, sincere and worried. John scoffs at him, but a smile was on his lips.

"Yes. I know." he answers.

Sherlock briskly nods and sits down on the sofa, leaving John to his own devices to clean up. But that is fine. Because although things weren't back to normal yet, it was certainly better.

"Where did you put all of my things?"

"You didn't think that after two years I wouldn't clean up, don you?"

Because John had stopped feeling alone and the flat didn't seem empty of life anymore.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

As I have no beta-reader, nor have I seen all of the series, I apologize for any eventual errors in the story.


End file.
